But he was pierced for our transgressions,

he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace was on him,

and by his wounds we are healed.

We all, like sheep, have gone astray,

each of us has turned to our own way;

and the Lord has laid on him

the iniquity of us all.

It started in the garden, and so in one, it would end. There he was, the king of the heavens, on his knees. Eyes filled with tears, face lined with blood. He felt it, they all felt it, even if they didn't know what it was. For in all of space, and all of time, everything had been prepared for this one moment.

And he begged, he didn't want it. Not this burden, not this honor.

"Father, if it is your will, lift this cup from my hand."

Silence.

That was his answer, the man knew deep in his heart. He knew all the time, it was unavoidable, fixed in the pages of history. Always the plan, no matter what they did, there must be a sacrifice. Someone must die and satisfy the Father's wrath.

But who could do it? A righteous man, there were none. An angel? They were servants, made to do good, set in their ways.

Only one could die, so they would live.

Fully man, fully God.

Primed and plucked for the slaughter.

Three times he begged for mercy, then he begged no more.

The Christ had accepted his fate. He tasted blood and salt on his tongue, the humidity of the air beat down upon his flesh. The morning dew of the leaves already scorched by the bloody sun.

There were no clouds in the air to provide rain, nor water to cool his scorched throat. Away, his disciples were sleeping, unaware of how history was being made before them. How merciful that rest was, to be whisked away to a tired innocence, leaping and laughing in greener pastures than he.

But that was the point, so he may shield them from the brunt of their sin.

A snake slithered off far away, its rattle and laugh ringing in his ears.

It was time, his friend was coming.

They awoke to their Lord surrounded by men with swords. He was smiling, though their eyes gleamed with murder. At the front of their brood was Judas, holding a bag of silver, the coins making a clink as he examined the bag.

Peter scowled.

A life for a handful of silver, was that how little Jesus mattered to him?

He drew his sword and lunged, a guard stepping in his way. Without hesitation he sliced off his ear, intending to kick him aside to skewer the traitor.

Eyes red, heart pumping.

Until a warm hand was placed on his shoulder, and he looked back to see the face of his friend, his Lord. His eyes welled up in tears, and Peter gripped the blade he held, knuckles sweaty and steaming. He expected the words that came out of Jesus' mouth next, dam him.

Because even when he was right, he wanted blood, he just wanted to hurt someone, anyone, to stop this. To make the inevitable could away.

But he was as powerless to stop it as God himself was, so what did that make him?

"Put away the sword, for those who live by it shall die by it."

He nodded, unable to speak and untie the knot in his throat.

How could he look at them like that? How could he smile so lovingly, like everything would be alright? What did he know that they didn't?

And all of those miracles, healings of the sick, those raised from the dead, seemed far away now. For here was just a man who bled and withered away, like the rest of them. How could he escape his fate? What could he possibly do now to turn this to God's glory?

Lord, I will never leave you.

But when the sun rose, the disciples scattered, gone like dust in the wind.

And the guards scoffed, spitting upon his feet.

"Are these the men you called your disciples? Where are they now, King of the Jews?"

The Son of Man held his head high, looking at them with a mixture of pity and affection. His eyes glowed with such a warmth that made their flesh squirm, as if they were afraid to touch him.

"So long as the heavens shine and the seas churn, the children of God will not forget their Maker."

They scowled at that, having no reply. But, as much as their flesh itched, a stronger voice took hold. The voice of a snake, a devil, whose plans were coming to fruition as he sensed the end of all things, and the beginning of his vision.

They could almost feel fangs against their necks, venom drooping down and boiling their skin.

Do it, take him away and let his power have a hold over you no more.

So they did just that, dragging him away into the night, as the disciples ran and ran. Already they imagined invisible enemies calling for their blood. They looked at each other, their friends, and wondered if even they were conspiring against them. Every shadow hid an assailant, every new face regarded them with suspicion. The world seemed a little darker, a little crueler, and all the light they had in their lives, every last ray of it, was about to be snuffed out.

A part of them called out, fight back! Find him and unchain him from his bindings, so the Son of God can walk among his people again.

But they couldn't. Not for their lives, not for the diseased and broken bodies they clung to like dolls.

It was too much, and for now, they ran.

Into an uncertain future from a past that they didn't remember. Because if they did, they would know that from this tragedy, would birth the greatest act of mercy in the world, and even the gates of hell could not stand against it.

Because even from the beginning of time, this was the only way. Man must sin so he could choose God, and thus, man must die so his sins can be forgiven.

And he knew this, as he was being dragged away to be judged, by those he came to save. But knowing a thing was different than experiencing a thing, and this was almost too much for him to bear.

The father was turning away, as the flesh of the world began to make a burden on his back, making every step heavier, every breath an effort. For if he looked as his son perished, even he would turn his back to man and save his son.

Judas sat on a rocky cliff, looking at the stony knives that loomed below. His silver lied in a pile among the rocks. Blood money, the price of one man's life, so low, and too late. Did they know who they were going to kill, and did they know what that would accomplish. He understood it now, at the brink of death. The sun shone brightly, and the cloudless sky was a crisp blue. He held up his hand, and cupped the sky in it. That could have been his, but he sold his friend out for the love of money.

And all of creation, from the heavens to the sea's depths, would remember his betrayal. But even their scorn did little to sooth him, though he wasn't sad. He was numb, as if a wedge had been placed in his heart. His eyes were like graying pearls, dead and lifeless.

He had shared supper with him, even when he knew what was to come. They broke bread, they ate and drank together. Not even once did Jesus express anger, as if he knew the heart of Judas before he knew himself.

He was forgiven, and he hated that. He wanted his sin, he wanted to feel bad. If he didn't have his guilt and self loathing, then what would he be? What would he become? Judas couldn't go back to the disciples not now. How could he look them in the face when they would know it was he who delivered their friend to his death? How could he look at himself? That pale, scarred face, the face of a killer, who punished an innocent man, the only innocent one in this world.

He stood up, taking a breath. The only miracle now was that he was still alive.

Not now, not anymore.

And as he tied the noose around his neck, he remembered the man who wept with the dead, who healed the sick and fed the poor, who stooped himself down to the feet of sinners.

They didn't deserve him.

They all deserved to burn.

And his last view was the burning sun, the cool sky and all he could not have.

He rasped, and he was done.

Later, the rope would snap, as crows pecked at his corpse. His flesh picked to the bone, each morsel of juicy flesh ripped off like a mouthful of bread. Later on, in better days, some would argue whether this disciple was saved or not. Had his sins outweighed his salvation? Was he saved to begin with? But what they could all agree on was that on that night, as his body was impaled by the rocks, his silver had spilled out among the stones, fulfilling another prophecy.

And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the value of Him who was priced, whom they of the children of Israel priced, and gave them for the potter's field, as the Lord directed me.

He followed him, even as they dragged him through the dirt, the innocent lamb torn asunder. The rest had run, scattered like sheep. But he alone, had stayed, to see his master through to the end. He was before them now, the high priest and his band of liars and hypocrites, stumbling through testimonies at this mock trial. Even before their brood, he showed no fear. And Peter loved him for that. Even if they stood before him waving swords and clubs, he would have not drawn back.

Truly, though none of them knew it, if the entire world had tried to stop him from getting onto that cross, not even they would have stopped him.

Yet as he was watching from a distance, a woman came to him, as if she knew him and not as a stranger.

"Are you a servant of Jesus of Galilee?"

His blood turned cold, and all of that anger he had so proudly held within himself vanished. And he saw himself at the stand like Jesus, answering for things he did not do, crimes he did not commit. Bleeding out for days at the cross, throat dry and limbs out of joint. Begging for mercy, for anyone, someone, to please save him.

The words slipped out before he could stop him.

"No, no I do not know him."

Lord, I will never deny you. I would lay down my life for you.

Then another came along, a slave like the first. Her red eyes shone like fire, and her bronze face pierced him like a dagger bathed in oil. Peter squirmed under her gaze, and a memory stayed right out of reach, something he should know. The words of someone important, who quoted the line of prophets that came before him.

She spoke, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A chill ran down his spine, though the day was young and hot.

His legs wanted to run, and his body wished to hide.

Why was he so scared? What did he have to fear, when God himself was on his side?

Everything, because in the moment, he didn't see God, only himself and his life.

For now, that was all that mattered.

"That man was with Jesus of Nazareth."

And again, he spoke without thinking, like he knew the words before the slave spoke her piece. Like he was always meant to say them.

"I swear upon the Lord, I do not know that man."

Hadn't he broken bread with him? Hadn't he endured storm and fire with that man? Didn't he proclaim, that above else, even if the others left, he alone would stand with him? And what was he doing now, becoming the very person he swore to oppose.

He looked to the ground, a shadow falling over his face, like a veil of mourning.

Peter found a fire, cupping his hands and huddling over the flame to stave off the chill that made his body shiver. There were others here too, covered in blankets or robes, staying together, like they were family. He felt a pang of loneliness then, and he wondered what had happened to his fellow disciples. Were they watching their Lord from a distance, just like he? Or were they hidden far away, where the power of Rome or the church could not find them. He hoped for their sake that they were safe. Already, he felt the paranoia sinking in. One wrong word, one enemy made, could be his death.

He wondered if that was a good thing.

At least if he died, he would be at peace.

Peter sighed. Life had a way of making you cling to it even when circumstance made you want to lose it.

But, he needed to live for him, what they stood for, the God they worshipped and loved.

What a hypocrite, that you profess God in your head but deny him with your mouth.

A little girl, no older than six, came over to him. She seemed to see past the shadow over his face, his tired crow eyes, the wrinkles that lined his young countenance. He didn't even flinch, not this time. Peter just numbly looked into her eyes as if he was powerless to avoid her gaze.

Ask it, ask it I dare you, see what I do.

"That is him! From the way he speaks, he is the disciple of that prophet!"

An echo, was all he said. Merely parroting what he said before for the third time. Bile rose to his throat, as if speaking these words was an utter disgrace. And they were, weren't they? He felt sick to his stomach, and yet he continued.

"I do not know him, I have never seen that man in my life!"

It would have been better if he confessed. If he perished beside him, if he defended him before the high priest. Maybe then, maybe then he could be bargained for. Maybe then could they both live. But to Christ, he was as good as gone, just another face in the crowd.

As he uttered his third denial, a shrill caw echoed across the town, the cry of a rooster. He paled, and tears welled up in his eyes.

He remembered, he foretold it, after all. But in his pride he made his first lie, that he wouldn't, that he would die by Jesus' side.

And where was he now?

Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.

Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.

So he ran again, disappearing into the day, tears falling from his face.

They hated his face, vanity hidden by a veneer of humility. It sickened them to their stomachs, how such a man could remain calm before their presence. Many greater men had been bound, forced to kneel before the high priest, would wilt under his stare. They were strong in the world yes, but brought in front of a servant of God, how could they compare? How they so eagerly begged, pouring out their hearts as if they were poets, confessing to every crime, pleading for pardon and forgiveness. They knew their place, Gentiles at heart, made to submit before God's messenger to the world.

But this Jew, this insolent carpenter arrived in no such manner. He stood up straight, shoulders poised, face hiding nothing yet confessing nothing either. And the priest, so taken aback by his composure, trembled, almost drawing back before taking a deep breath.

There was a pressure in the air, so palatable it could be cut with a knife. He felt almost weak before this man. He couldn't place the origin for the feeling, nor the cause. Just that, in his years of service, never had someone radiated such holiness, such purity, as this man. He was adept at reading others, years of corruption had seen to that.

For a moment, he wondered if everything was true, if he truly was looking at the son of God.

A bead of sweat trickled down his face, and his servants noticed this, murmuring among each other in unease. Yet he found a forced smile, as he pulled himself together to begin the trial. Jesus said nothing as each witness came to the stand. Normally, it would have been easy work to nitpick someone's life, citing minor infractions in the law, to destroy a man. But this man, even after several days of research and cross examination, did nothing. That was not an understatement. Even after consulting those who hated him with every bone in their body, they were forced to admit that he was guilty of no wrongdoing. He was perfect, unblemished, pure in every way.

And they hated him for that, they felt their own sin squirming under their skin and envied his righteousness. So, they had to kill him for it.

Because in this world, it was either him or them, and there were more of them than him.

They took to the stand. Some had not even found Jesus in their lives, but they came up with odd stories nonetheless. He had a demon, disrupting the order and casting curses into others. He prophesied falsely, predicting things that did not happen. He had worked on the sabbath, performing fake miracles when it was unlawful to do so. All of these lies and more. And each one seemed to contradict the next, assigning qualities to Jesus that were simply untrue, creating a narrative that was flimsy at best. But even as they lied to his face, he said nothing. His face was a mixture of pity and sympathy. He could have said a word and the trial would have been over. Bringing up any contradiction, any fallacy. Yet he remained silent.

Why? The high priest wondered. Why was he so determined to die? Was he mad, was that it? An insanity so depraved that every breath dragged him to an early death? Or was he playing them for fools, dragging this out for his own amusement?

The priest's lip quivered, and he found his voice and wrath, as he shouted at the man.

All else became quiet.

"Is it true that you claim to be the son of God?"

They held their breath. That was it, the crux of the matter. To elevate yourself to such a position, if equality with God was a concept to be grasped. And how could they, how could any of them comprehend such a claim? They had seen his miracles, the dead he raised, the lepers they had touched themselves, with smooth skin. How could any of them call him a fraud?

That was it, devil or divine.

But he couldn't believe, no matter the cost. Not when his authority was riding on this trial, not when everything he held true was being questioned.

He answered, and the priest was hanging onto every word.

You have said it yourself. But I tell you, from now on you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of power, and coming on the clouds of heaven.

They could see it, beyond the man. They could see all of the universe held in the hand of one man, and the Son sitting at his side. Lightning flashed, and all of time and space was seen in his eyes. They trembled, some even bowed, but the high priest stood up. He growled like a lion, and tore his robe in two. He pointed at Jesus, the false prophet, the enemy of the world, and cursed him, in the name of God.

"I name you enemy, King of the Jews. I name you heretic, blasphemer, a liar and scoundrel, and thief. These things you have said will be held against you, and for these charges you shall have no pardon. You said you are the son of God, so do this. Save yourself before death finds you. Call upon a legion of angels to your side. Let them deliver you from the power of Rome and Ceasar. Show us these things, and then I will believe."

Christ said nothing, only peering into him with those loving, wide eyes.

The priest beat his hands down upon his breast, and kept shouting.

"What say you to these charges? What say you, fiend? Answer me fool! Are you deaf? ANSWER ME!"

Then, he spoke.

"Truly, I say to you. The temple will be broken. And in three days, it will be rebuilt."

The priest scouled, and nodded to the guards.

"Take him away, I have no use for him."

Pilate's face was set in stone. Another day, another charge. He had heard the accusations, and the mock trial held by that clown of a high priest. But now, it was time to decide himself.

"Bring the prisoner to me."

He was brought in, bound and beaten. Several bruises lined his face, clothes torn from the lashes of a wip. Dry blood adorned his garments, wounds already scabbing over, some spilling a sickly yellow pus. He respected this Jesus for the way he carried himself. Not hunched over in pain, but straight and tall, like he had no wounds whatsoever.

Had they met in different circumstances, this teacher might have made an odd ally.

But enough of the could and would have beens, he had a job to do. To judge whether this man was guilty of the charges held against him.

They sat at a table, like they were having a last supper. He offered Jesus a morsel, maybe a loaf of bread, or a dash of fruit? Roman custom called for hospitality, even towards prisoners, and Pilate was not one to deny tradition. The man refused, even though he could tell that Christ was hungry.

Man must not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from God.

Nodding, he began the interrogation.

"So are you the King of the Jews?"

Jesus tilted his head, a thin smile on his face.

Such an old face, even though he was young. What had this man seen? Pilate wondered. What did he understand that he did not? What went on in that head that seemed blocked off from head, like though he bowed in submission, he was truly higher than anyone he had ever seen.

"It is what you say."

Pilate pursed his lips, his finger impatiently tapping the table.

"But what is it? Who are you?"

He raised an eyebrow, and Pilate's knuckles whitened, unknowingly clasped together in a pale fist. His neck tightened, muscles stiffened, as he waited for Jesus' answer.

It was just a man, why was he so scared? What threat could he pose to him?

What had he done that made him so feared?

He did nothing, and that is why you fear him so. He never lifted a finger against you. He never made a threat, because he never needed to.

Before Abraham was, I am.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me,"

Pilate smirked.

"So you do admit it."

He nodded.

"I am all you say of me, and more."

Pilate had the man taken away, leaving him alone in deep thought.

He didn't want to kill him. There were powers greater than he at work here. He wasn't a superstitious man, but already the shadows seemed darker, the candlelight crisper, like its flame was reaching out a smoky hand. If he listened, maybe he could hear the devil chanting, as the powers of hell converged this very hour. Or rather, the angel's harps. Were the gods testing him now, if he was one of their own? What would happen if he died at his hand? He didn't want to kill him, not an innocent lamb.

He closed his eyes, and winced. Killing wasn't usually this hard. Pilate could have given any other man up to the Roman guard and he would be dead within days. But all this, why him? Why did he look at him with such a sorrowful face, like he knew, like he had accepted his fate? What had he seen to know such things? Why was claiming to be the son of God so hateful to them, so despicable that instead of shunning him as a lunatic, they conspire to kill him?

He said he was the truth, but what was truth?

He wondered if he was facing the truth right now.

The next morning, and the crowd was crying out for blood. Priests and their servants were sent out among the crowd, whispering their lies. The weak willed, the worldly wise, they listened. They all listened. That they should kill him. The messiah and false god. Who dared call them their king. Had they forgotten so soon, that some of them waved fig leaves as he passed on a donkey, shouting Hosanna, Hosanna in the highest! Were they so eager to be free of him now, on a day where they were to celebrate their lives being spared?

Pilate faced them, on the day of passover. Custom demanded that one prisoner be freed on this day, so they were given two, of one to choose. Jesus, or Barnabas, a liar, thief, and murderer, bound and chains and wearing as many scars as the many sins he committed. It should be easy, Pilate thought. Surely they would pick the guilty man.

Time will tell.

"Citizens of Rome, as per your tradition, today one prisoner shall be released, forgiven of his sins by the law of your God! Here, we have Jesus, who has healed and performed miracles, before some of your very eyes. He claims to be the Son of God, and for that, your priests and elders have him bound here. And you have Barnabas, who you know well. Some of you may know his victims, those he cheated, those he killed. Which one do you want? Choose well, because once one is freed, the other shall be condemned. Christ or killer? Their lives are in your hands."

He gulped, and hoped they chose correctly.

As quick as a whip, they answered. If one could call their response an answer. More of a sick roar, a wolf's howl, squeezing syllables through a scream that filled the day. They were pointing, chanting his name, like a drumbeat.

Could he hear it? Bang, bang, bang, bang.

His name, one name.

Jesus. Crucify him! Crucify him!

Pilate shouted, resisting the growing flame of the crowd.

"But why! What has he done to you!"

They responded with a growl of their own.

"It does not matter, crucify him!"

Pilate stood up, fists at his sides. They were frothing at the mouth, red eyed, banging their hands against their breasts. Nails like claws, scratching, drawing blood that spilled out onto the earth. Eyes, like fiery rubies, bulging out of their sockets. Breath hot and humid, beads of sweat, like raindrops, lining their backs.

Because the flesh hated what was holy. And they wanted him to suffer. Mark up that pretty face and show the king what pain was.

As if they knew his pain, as if they understood at all.

Could they feel it? It was hot, not a tree or shade was in sight. Not a breeze, or a comforting cloud. The wind was warm, like a flaming blizzard. It scorched their skin and opened up blisters, burning scalps as if they were melted metal. Sand blew around, getting into their eyes, dirt and sweat, blood and mucus all commingling in a fine stew. Skin rubbed red and raw, tender to the touch. And in the haze of the heat, in the midst of misery, they became the beast. Not a black, ugly thing, or some great dragon breathing fire. But a creature with two legs, two arms, and a head.

The beast wore the skin of a man.

What a clever disguise, these beasts, these men, these hypocrites, who looked at the fulfillment of the law and found him in violation of it.

Can you hear it?

Take a good listen.

Listen, listen, listen….

The drumbeat was getting louder, and it would not subside until his blood watered the soil.

Crucify him, let the Son of God be reunited with his Father!

Let him meet his Maker.